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If the name Friedrich Kalkbrenner is familiar at all, it’s probably for his famous suggestion that Chopin would benefit from three years of study with him (a bold offer the Pole wisely turned down). But, as Hyperion’s ever-expanding Romantic Piano Concerto series has repeatedly shown, received historical opinion and musical quality don’t always go hand in hand. With Volume 56 we reach the second and final instalment of Kalkbrenner’s concertos, dazzlingly played by Howard Shelley, directing the Tasmanian Symphony Orchestra from the keyboard. For all that Kalkbrenner wasn’t afraid to write big, bold orchestral introductions, it’s when the pianist makes his entry that you realize what a jawdropping player he must have been, with writing of such glittering, glistening panache that it must have had those polite salon ladies reaching for their smelling salts.

Reviews

'Shelley is a formidable presence both as soloist and conductor. Yes, he has the technique and dexterity to play this music; but he also understands how to make the most of the orchestral writing (which … is frequently more interesting than Chopin's) … there's a considerable grace to his playing too—his immersion in repertoire of this period has given him an innate understanding of what makes it tick' (Gramophone)

'Howard Shelley attacks it all with gleeful extravagance. He is also directing the Tasmanian Symphony Orchestra from the piano as he plays music of often atrocious difficulty, which is something of a tour-de-force in itself. It's great fun' (The Guardian)

'Howard Shelley's virtuosity is seemingly effortless, even in the face of pianistic pyrotechnics which are prodigious in the extreme and seemingly endless too … a wonderful beauty and variety of tone, and carefully judged rubato and rhythmic nuances which give an air of improvisation to the constant embellishments of the slow movements … the support of the Tasmanian Symphony Orchestra is no less distinguished, both in sonority and ardour, carrying the listenere through the extended orchestral expositions with real narrative sweep and ardour … Jeremy Nicholas' notes are excellent and the recording captures every detail and refinement of Shelley's stunning performances' (International Record Review)

'Shelley reminds us of why he is so suited to this repertoire: the sparkling passagework is impeccably and suavely delivered. Interaction between piano and orchestra is beautiful: the flute additions to the piano's ornamnentation are delightful … [The Adagio ed Allegro is] a magnificently chosen filler, a bonne bouche that perfectly showcases Shelley's considerable talents without making any real demands on the listener. Kalkbrenner remains an interesting figure, and these works deserve attention' (International Piano)

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Introduction

'An instruction-book with études belonging to it is the best thing Kalkbrenner left’, opined the distinguished pianist Edward Dannreuther in the 1900 edition of Grove’s Dictionary. ‘His attainments as a musician are shown in four pianoforte concertos, one for two pianos, a septet, sextet and quintet, and various sonatas; all correctly and well written for the instrument, but dull and trite, spite of the glitter of what was called a “brilliant” style.’ Friedrich Wilhelm Michael Kalkbrenner (1785–1849) was a child prodigy who studied at the Paris Conservatoire and in Vienna, where he struck up a warm friendship with Hummel and spent his leisure time in the company of Beethoven and Clementi. A full account of his singular career can be found in the booklet for his Piano Concertos Nos 1 and 4.

History has not been kind to him. Reference books are quick to spell out his shortcomings but reluctant to celebrate the qualities that made him so stupendously successful during his lifetime. Most evaluations of Kalkbrenner’s music are by writers who have simply passed on the opinions of others without themselves ever having examined or heard a note of it. More generous than most is James D Brown’s Biographical Dictionary of Musicians, published in Glasgow in 1886: ‘This pianist brought the mechanical part of his art to a perfection never previously known in his period. His works are permeated with a stilted formality which marks strongly enough the preponderance of the scholastic over the inspired musician. His performance was distinguished by much brilliancy and a perfect command over the technical peculiarities of the pianoforte, but is spoken of by Moscheles [Dannreuther’s teacher, see above] and other judges as being greatly lacking in sympathy and feeling.’ Oscar Bie, in A History of the Pianoforte and Pianoforte Players (1899), is coruscating: ‘Externally a fine gentleman and artistic man of the world, he is inwardly hollow and vapid. It is hard even to give an idea of this extreme emptiness … His opera fantasias touch the very nadir. Here a sort of sanction is given to an utter want of taste.’ And so forth.

There may indeed be something in what Dannreuther, Brown and Bie say, but well over a century after they were writing Kalkbrenner retains his place, albeit brief, in any authoritative work of musical reference. His star shone so brightly among his contemporaries that, unlike many of them, Kalkbrenner has never quite fallen off the bottom of the page, despite the fact that his music is now almost never performed (especially true of the works on this disc) and his reputation as a composer has been consistently denigrated.

His name, in any case, will always appear in biographies of Chopin because of the well-known story of the first meeting between the two. Chopin had just arrived in Paris and sought out Kalkbrenner who, at that time, was hailed as the pre-eminent pianist of the day. Immensely wealthy from his music, business enterprises and marriage, Kalkbrenner had an over-inflated view of himself that made him a laughing stock among his peers. He had the young Pole play for him and then, famously, suggested that Chopin should study with him for three years, after which he would be a finished artist. Thankfully the offer was turned down. (Despite rejecting him as a teacher, Chopin retained a warm affection for Kalkbrenner, dedicating his Piano Concerto No 1 to him.)

This story is one of many that were gleefully circulated throughout Europe at Kalkbrenner’s expense. His financial success and risible vanity made him a juicy target. Another oft-repeated tale concerns the occasion when Kalkbrenner called on the influential Professor Marx of Berlin. Eager to impress, Kalkbrenner lamented the lost art of improvisation of which, he boasted, he was the last living exponent. To illustrate this he launched into a lengthy improvisation complete with concluding fugue. The next day Marx happened to receive from Paris a parcel of new music. Amongst the pieces was one by Kalkbrenner called Effusio musica (which would become his calling card). Note for note it was the same as the ‘improvisation’ he had heard the day before. Although the story may be apocryphal, it nevertheless reveals the common perception of Kalkbrenner’s self-importance. More reliable, perhaps, is the opinion of Mendelssohn. Recalling one occasion when Kalkbrenner called in and played some of his new compositions, he wrote: ‘The man is quite romantic, steals themes, ideas and similar trifles from Hiller, writes pieces in F sharp minor [identified as a ‘Romantic’ key], practises every day for several hours and is, as he always was, a knowing fellow.’

It is seldom remembered that it was Kalkbrenner who introduced Chopin to Paris and thereby made the music capital of the world aware of the genius in its midst. True, it was not an entirely altruistic gesture on Kalkbrenner’s part. He had been a partner in the Pleyel piano firm since 1824 and was keen to convert his ‘protégé’ to the company’s instruments. It was he who sponsored the concert on 26 February 1832 (in the Salle Pleyel, of course) that featured Chopin playing his F minor Concerto and ‘Là ci darem’ Variations. This also gave the enterprising entrepreneur the chance to present to the Parisian public his own Grande Polonaise for six pianos (played by himself, Chopin, Sowinski, Osborne, Hiller and Stamaty—Mendelssohn was invited to play but instead sat in the front row of the audience).

If Kalkbrenner was hardly a great composer, and a pianist who rarely played anything but his own compositions, his piano writing nevertheless made distinct advances in details of piano technique such as the equality and responsiveness of the fingers, octave playing and use of the pedals. His fingers were always kept in very close contact with the keys. Oscar Bie described him as having ‘that special kind of sensuously charming touch which differentiated the Parisian school from the brilliant playing of the Viennese and the emotional style of the English. That carezzando, or stroking of the keys, was a favourite practice of Kalkbrenner.’

Throughout the three works presented here one is reminded of Bie’s observation that ‘Kalkbrenner composed while playing, and played while composing, so that no one could tell the difference between the two’. If we judge a pianist’s ability by the music he wrote for himself to play, he must have had a tremendous, not to say sensational technique. Though idiomatically laid out for the two hands, it is extremely difficult music to play with its constantly vacillating scansion and shifting harmonies, made all the more challenging by the heavier action of the modern concert grand: his armoury of leggiero octaves, rapid passages of thirds and repeated notes and the like are much easier to execute played from the wrist on the instruments of Kalkbrenner’s day with their lighter action and shallower fall.

Kalkbrenner’s Piano Concerto No 2 in E minor Op 85 (1826) is dedicated to His Majesty the King of Württemberg. The opening Allegro maestoso begins with the same rhythmic device (and a similar theme) to Hummel’s A minor Concerto published in 1821—also Op 85, Kalkbrenner’s little joke, perhaps. Thereafter the two works quickly diverge, though the writing reveals an intimate acquaintance with Hummel, as well as with the concertos of Beethoven and Field and the arabesque figurations of Weber. Despite the lengthy introduction (88 bars), the orchestra has a similar role to that in Chopin’s two concertos, providing a cushion for what is, at heart, a piano solo, the scoring deliberately graded to support the sound of the piano. The work sets out in E minor, modulating to the relative major for the lyrical second subject (5'00''), and arriving at the tonic major at 10'22'' when this same cantabile episode returns. The slow movement is in C major, marked Adagio non troppo and subtitled ‘La tranquillité’. For a moment its opening theme comes perilously close to that of the last movement of Beethoven’s ‘Pastoral’ Symphony. Even here, there is a restless undercurrent beneath the tranquil surface. The finale is a catchy Rondo marked Allegretto grazioso. With a constant exchange of ideas, a second subject emerges at 1'48'' and a third at 5'45'', the initial theme returning at 6'52'' in the remote key of D flat major. A substantial cadenza brings us back to the home key and a whirlwind of demisemiquaver passagework to round off the work in triumphant fashion.

Piano Concerto No 3 in A minor Op 107 (1829) is dedicated ‘à son Excellence le Prince Talleyrand’, no less (Kalkbrenner was an incorrigible name-dropper). It has the same conventional line-up as No 2, retaining the trombone but adding a piccolo and parting with the timpani. As in Op 85, Kalkbrenner sets out his stall not with themes that lodge in the memory but with motifs that act as springboards for a dizzying succession of constantly varying étude-like passages: rapid repeated notes, lightning arpeggios in thirds and sixths, athletic octaves, and filigree flights to the top of the keyboard and back. The martial nature subsides at 6'52'' into a quieter legato e cantabile solo in 9/8, reminiscent of a Field nocturne. Thus far, the more than eleven minutes of music have been in A minor/C major. After a quasi-cadenza and 360 bars, Kalkbrenner modulates to A major and stays there for the remainder of the movement which ends in a riot of octaves and extended trills, reminiscent of Hummel. A brief recitative section (Maestoso sostenuto) entitled ‘Introduzione del Rondo’ replaces a slow movement. The Rondo itself (Allegro vivace) is as graceful and charming as anything Kalkbrenner penned. It demands a delicate leggiero touch and refined technique to bring it off with the requisite debonair twinkle.

The same is true of the Adagio ed Allegro di bravura Op 102 (1830)—dedicated to His Royal Highness the Grand Duke of Hesse—a glittering entertainment piece, to which Chopin’s Andante spianato and Grande Polonaise is not unrelated. The orchestra’s sombre Adagio maestoso, in A flat major, is contrasted by the piano’s plaintive entry (‘simplice’). A fanfare from the horns and woodwind heralds the exuberant rondo theme of the Allegro vivace with a solo part every bit as treacherous and, let us admit it, crowd-pleasing as those of the two concertos. Kalkbrenner certainly knew how to wow the public.